Dawn
by Eleniel of Rivendell
Summary: Do not fear, for this darkness is coming to a close now. Things were not always meant to be so bleak; there is always hope, hope to look forward to, if we only remember to search for it in the blackest of nights. Despair is not life. Shadows do not last forever. Sooner or later, the sun will rise on the new morning, and all will be good again.
1. Part 1

**SHERLOCK!**

**Okay, I decided to do a little something over Sherlock just because SEASON THREE IS UNDER WAY but it's not coming until 2014. And also because I rewatched The Reichenbach Fall again and it depresses me.**

**Anyway this piece is probably going to be pretty short, three or four chapters at most, I guess; it's just… well, once you get the elements of Sherlock and John's lives apart, it's pretty bland. They're basically doing pretty much nothing (at least that's how I imagine it); it wouldn't be uninteresting to them but it's not much to write about. I gave it my best shot, though I'm probably going to go back and do a lot of editing in the future.**

**I'll stop my rambling now, here's Part 1.**

_Do not fear, for this darkness is coming to a close now. Things were not always meant to be so bleak; there is always hope, hope to look forward to, if we only remember to search for it in the blackest of nights. Despair is not life. Shadows do not last forever. Sooner or later, the sun will rise on the new morning, and all will be good again._

Part 1

He stood, concealed behind a thin linen curtain, in the topmost floor of the hospital, in a room that was completely empty, save himself. The dark-haired man was completely expressionless; this was not an unusual occurrence, but a war was raging in his head. It wasn't neat, organized, like it usually was; instead, it was chaos. Beneath it was a strange sense of numbness, one he'd never really experienced.

He hated it.

The other one, down on the sidewalk, had fallen to his knees. It was just possible to discern the way he had taken the hand of the body on the cement, his own shock, the way his shoulders shook with the tears he would not shed because it wasn't like him, because of the armor he'd required to survive for so long. His words rang in Sherlock Holmes's ears- "_Friends protect each other."_

For the first time, a sliver of grief passed over his face. He inhaled sharply and tipped his head down, squeezing his eyes shut. John was a friend, he realized. They both had; Sherlock knowingly, John, perhaps, unconsciously. They'd made the decision to accept it, whether they realized it or not. However exasperating they claimed the other to be, whatever happened, they were friends- without being enemies, for once.

The medics outside had picked up the body, had put it on a stretcher, were wheeling it inside. It was not Sherlock Holmes. The disguise had been quite simple, really- all it had required was the, ahem, "borrowing" of a corpse under study from the labs, a wig, a pint of donated blood, and the help of Molly Hooper to put the whole thing together in less than half an hour. They were going to do a bit of scrambling with the DNA, just to be thorough, then prevent him from being seen for as long as possible. They knew his being "dead" couldn't last forever, but they sought to prolong the ignorance of the general public as long as possible.

The sound of a door opening startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Molly edging her way, quietly and rather timidly, into the room.

"They've gone," she murmured. "I've volunteered to do the analysis later, so that shouldn't be much of a problem…."

He nodded. "Thank… thank you. For everything."

She sighed and turned to go again; suddenly he burst out, "Can I ask you one more favor?"

John sat in his armchair, the usual one, his chin on his hand, staring at the other chair in the room. The one his best friend usually occupied. He squeezed his eyes shut, half-hoping that when he opened them Sherlock would be there with his fingertips pressed together, staring at nothing, mind working at a hundred miles a second; but alas, no one was there, and the momentary, fleeting comfort vanished.

He breathed slowly, for it was painful to do much else. His full teacup sat untouched on top of one of the psychology books that had been piled high, accumulated on the side table for a year and a half; it was cold.

John bowed his head, slowly. There was a battle raging inside him. He simply didn't know what to do- what he would do- how he would do it. How he would carry on like nothing had ever happened because it was now impossible to forget.

The therapist was always an option, but he didn't really want to go back. There was no current girlfriend; he hadn't really had much time to socialize while running around continuously solving crimes, but he couldn't face it on his own, it was too… well, too hard. He was still dazed….

He couldn't be gone… he just couldn't… it was impossible because Sherlock Holmes didn't die, he continued existing even though it was evident how much it hurt him in the fleeting moments when he thought John wasn't looking, he carried on; there would always be someone on the other side of the table or in the kitchen with a microscope or dashing around a crime scene in his black overcoat with the collar turned up; with the newspaper-wrapped hat, the thoughtfulness, everything….

John was taking huge, shuddering gasps of air now, trying to take it in, like maybe he could absorb it and get through it by just breathing. He wasn't crying, he couldn't, it was impossible now, after what he'd been through in the past; but it hadn't compared, hadn't matched up to this… the sense of emptiness. The loneliness.

_Sherlock, I don't know what to do…._

_ Please, please come back…._

**(it's short... sorry... I don't think this will be very lengthy, just an FYI.)**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	2. Part 2

**Hello!**

**... I do hope someone at least glances at these, I don't want to seem like I'm talking to myself...**

**Anyway, part 2. I did the best I could under the circumstances; please enjoy.**

...

The rush of the city went on, as usual, in the weeks that followed. 221B became virtually silent, a faraway place now; John had gone, left to a small, gray flat closer to the business district of London.

On the other side, in a completely different room, a selection of glossy photographs sat on a kitchen table. Molly sat on one side, her hands wrapped around a yellow mug; Sherlock's fingertips hovered over the prints, his green eyes flitting around the borders.

"He wore size 9 shoes. Weighed about 80 kilograms… maybe two meters tall, no more. The shoes were worn, he used them a lot… yes… they're running shoes. Wide-shouldered. Moving briskly but not running, that's good, no one would have thought to look twice at him if he wasn't moving especially quickly…. He wore overlong jeans, he trod on the hem once, you can see it just there." Sherlock sat back in his chair and took a sip of tea.

"He lives in a house with blue carpet."

"What?"

Molly slid a hand lens over the picture. "There. That, right there, it's a bit shiny. It looks like a carpet fiber."

The detective looked slightly impressed, if not a bit miffed that he hadn't found it first. "I didn't notice that…."

She looked up at him, half amused and half scolding. "While you're making your deductions I've learned to notice the things you don't. Well, sometimes, I mean…."

The faintest of smiles crept onto his face as she turned back to the pictures… but vanished quickly as a memory surfaced.

Abruptly he scooped up his mug, finishing the contents before setting it down in the sink. "I'm off to bed, if you don't mind…."

He was almost to the doorway before Molly called his name. He turned back to her to see her still sitting at the table over the abandoned photographs, gazing at him earnestly. "What are you going to do after this?"

"What do you mean?" He was stalling for time, he knew exactly what she was speaking of.

She sighed, glancing down at her own mug. "You said yourself that you were leaving after a week or two; it's been nearly four. You're getting restless, I can see it, you want to be out there on your own but you know that if they found you…."

"That's why I've been doing all this, I need to keep them safe… John and Ms. Hudson and Lestrade and all the others. I'm going to go back, but I refuse to keep them in danger."

"You're avoiding my question, Sherlock."

He dropped his gaze. Molly might not be particularly apt in conversational skills at times… but she had him.

"… I was planning to leave tomorrow night."

"You never said anything."

"What if I did, what if I did mention it beforehand, and someone found out? They're still trying to find me, for all we know someone could be watching us at this moment. Whatever happens, I need to keep you safe, too."

She smiled a bit, quaveringly but bravely. "I'll be fine. I've lasted this long." She stood, arranging the two mugs neatly in the dishwasher to have something to do. He watched her, a strange look on his face.

"I'm… I'm going to stop by the cemetery tomorrow, before doing anything else… do you want to-"

"No, I think you need to go alone. What makes you so sure that John will be there?"

"He's got an appointment with his therapist beforehand; he's going to pick up Ms. Hudson afterwards and they're going to the grave." He carefully avoided saying "my grave"; he'd made the mistake once, he didn't want to again.

She frowned. "You are aware that if he sees you-"

"I know the consequences and I'm willing to take the risk. He's going to be out of sight for I don't know how long; I'll be well hidden. He won't see me."

Molly sighed slightly, closing the dishwasher. He caught a fleeting glimpse of sadness in her warm brown eyes, but it was gone as she turned to face him again. "Be careful."

"I will."

She nodded, looking at the ground. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night." He paused again at the doorway. "And… thank you."

She smiled at him again, small but brave, and turned away.

He wouldn't see her again for a long time.

…

The taxi on the way to the graveyard was completely silent.

Both passengers wore black- Ms. Hudson in her funeral dress, John dressed in a dark jacket and pants. Simple. Effective. He'd always hated stiff formal wear, and didn't quite think it appropriate to wear a suit just to visit the grave.

Sherlock wouldn't want it.

Ms. Hudson carried the flowers. It was a small bouquet, nothing special, but they had felt that it was enough. And it was proportionate to the shiny black headstone, the newest and smallest in the vicinity; not quite roughened, unfamiliar to the lichen that spotted the other, older names.

It was a few minutes before Ms. Hudson broke the silence, in a small voice.

"There was… always the noise… firing guns at the wall, for heaven's sake… bloody specimens in my fridge, imagine keeping experiments where you keep your food… and the arguments that shook the floor, day and night-"

"Ms. Hudson."

She ducked her head, fighting off tears and not quite succeeding. "Yes, yes, dear, I'll let you…." She glanced off in the distance, made a shushing gesture seemingly to herself, and walked back, the way they'd come.

Now John was alone. He stood and stared at the gold-lettered name on the small slab of stone, contemplating what to say, there was so much, but he had to say something… he took a deep breath and stepped back. The words burst forth, unconsciously.

"You told me once… that you weren't a hero. Um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this… you were the best man and human… human being… I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh… there.

"I was so alone, and… I owe you… so much."

He turned, as if to go, but then on a sudden impulse, faced the grave again.

"Look, please… there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me….

"Don't… be… dead."

His breath caught and he stepped back, trying to stay strong, trying to keep from crying… "Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"

He buried his face in his hand, tears overwhelming him for a second because it had finally hit him… his best friend was dead. Was dead and wasn't coming back.

Ever.

He pulled his head up sharply, eyes dry; John turned on his heel in a military about-face and walked away, hurrying back to the car, back to the world.

…

There was someone, though, several meters away, concealed behind a headstone, watching him go.

His face was impossible to read; he stood completely still in the shade of the tree, watching John slowly disappear. He carried a small bag at his side. His coat collar was turned up, as usual, the same coat that had seen through so many ventures into the unknown; he looked the same as ever.

But he grieved.

He would not see John, or Ms. Hudson, or anyone for quite a while, he knew that. It was the truth. And he had to accept it.

He turned, walking away from the grave with a firm, steady stride.

He had work to do.

...

**Oh, I almost forgot-**

**I do not claim to own or be affiliated with Sherlock or BBC; this is purely a fanmade work.**


	3. Part 3

**Author's note: I apologize for the fact that I haven't updated in a bit- summer traveling...**

**Anyway, do enjoy.**

...

**Part 3**

John was utterly alone.

Never before had he felt the way he did now, never in his life. It was pain, almost unbearable pain, smothered by a layer of numbness he was afraid to beat away; he was scared of what would happen to him if he did.

His life had become a monotonous cycle- he ate and slept at the exact same times every day, showed up at work at a specific, constant time; he kept himself busy. He was still a doctor, still at the same place. He saw his patients, quietly listening to their ailments; he spoke to his coworkers only when necessary, keeping his head down and immersing himself in the work. The alternative was too overwhelming, too much to face at the current time.

His apartment, ten minutes from the workplace, was tiny, crammed in with a hundred identical copies in the same building; a bedroom, small bathroom, and a kitchen that opened into the living area. The furniture had come with it. Everything seemed strangely drained of color- the entire space was done in shades of beige, off-white, pale blue or gray. John hadn't bothered with much customization- simply setting his laptop down on the table and hanging his coat on the door. There was almost always a lone teacup, sitting forlornly by the sink, sometimes a newspaper on the coffee table; but no pictures on the walls or side tables, no attempt to brighten the space somewhat.

His dreams, however, were chaotic.

Almost as soon as he closed his eyes he would relive that horrible moment, nearly every night, over and over again. His best friend's final words, distorted by the phone. The fall. His figure, the black coat billowing around him, like he was flying, flying to the earth….

He always woke right before Sherlock hit the ground, in a cold sweat, the bedsheets twisted around him like a straightjacket. He would lie still, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, then carefully untangle himself from the sheets and roll over on his side, staring out the window.

Sometimes, the stars were visible.

He visited the grave the first and third Sundays of every month. He didn't bring flowers anymore, as Ms. Hudson wasn't with him most of the time; but occasionally there would be a single rose, a white one, on top of the neatly packed earth. The white roses were always pristine, perfect, and none gave any clue as to who left them. But no matter how many times he came, once a month, a new flower was there.

John would stand in front of the headstone, staring at the name, gold on black. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he didn't. When he did it was just small things- he told the name about how summer had come, how Ms. Hudson was faring, what was happening at work. Afterwards he would compose himself, turn, and walk away, face grim and unreadable. He never shed any tears, not anymore, none since the first visit.

Then, a day came- November 4th. Exactly six months since the day of Sherlock's death. John was exhausted- he'd spent a particularly long shift at the hospital the night before, dragging himself home at approximately 11:00 PM, then being reawakened by one of the nightmares again. Still, he felt obliged to visit again; so, that morning, he rolled out of bed, dressed simply, and set out.

There was a white rose, as usual, placed carefully at the base of the grave. He stared at it for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"Um… I don't quite… know what to say…." He sighed in frustration.

"I'm… fine, I guess. The therapist isn't really helping- don't tell her I said that. Not that you could, anyway… I haven't the heart to fire her yet, she needs the business."

He stopped for a moment.

"I'm… well…." He clenched his hand into a fist.

"I'm lost, okay, Sherlock? I don't know what to do, I almost don't know how to keep going…. It's not the same without you and I've said it before but just don't be dead, you'd better come back, you'd better…." His voice gave out and he closed his eyes, trying to breathe normally again. He turned sharply and left the graveyard, trying not to think.

But as soon as he closed his eyes that night, the dreams came again- the images of the falling figure in the black coat, except they didn't stop. He was forced to relive that moment, over and over again, like a stuck record that refused to be fixed.

Then he flashed forwards until he was next to the body on the pavement; the blood running down his face, his lifeless hands, his eyes… oh, god, his eyes, once the sea-green of the ocean after a storm, were blank, staring up at the sky, no meaning left.

And John could only stand and watch.

Watch as his best friend plummeted to the ground.

Watch as he lay broken on the sidewalk.

Watch as Sherlock faded away.

John woke with a cry; he struggled against whatever was wrapped around him so tightly, robbing him of air, before he realized it was the sheets again. He disentangled himself and realized that there were tears on his face.

Rubbing them angrily away, he slowly got up and trudged into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He sat down at the table and turned on his laptop for no apparent reason, probably just to have something to do; however, there wasn't anything to _do._ Not anymore, as his life was hardly interesting at this point… he stared idly at the screen before the whistling of the kettle eased him to his senses, and he closed the computer with a sharp _snap._

The tea sat on the table in front of him, steaming; but even after he'd taken the bag out he didn't drink. He could only sit there and watch the translucent white ribbons spiral gracefully to the ceiling, slowly growing fainter as it grew cooler. Memories flickered at the edge of his conscience, but he pushed them back, forcing himself not to sink into the bog again.

He screwed up his face and pressed his hands to his eyes. _Pull yourself together._

John stayed that way until the sun peeked up over the rooftops of London, unable to get up, unable to sleep; finally, he picked his head up, took a deep breath, and began his day as usual.

…

_Run._

Cold air whipped at his face, fighting him, but he refused to give in to it, he had to keep going; footsteps echoed rapidly behind him, and in his mind's eye he could see the figure advancing down the labyrinth of alleyways and dark, narrow streets.

Sherlock dove aside into an alcove and pulled out the gun, alternatively shooting and flinging himself against the worn brick wall. The other man had planted himself at the mouth of the street, feet apart, his own gun held out in front of him with both hands. His face was hidden in shadow, but Sherlock knew it well enough- one of the accomplices, puppets, more like, of the second most dangerous man in London.

And now, he'd apparently been discovered.

He let out a frustrated sigh at the stubbornness of the other- _give up,_ already- and burst out into the open, firing over and over again. The gunshots echoed off the high walls, ringing in his temples; one bullet whistled by so close to his head it ruffled his hair. Then, finally, a single shot entered the other man's forehead, and he fell, a pool of blood rapidly spreading over the pavement.

Sherlock sighed, putting the gun away, and walked up to the body of the enemy. His eyes stared at the sky, blank, marble-like. He shoved the body over with his shoe- they'd find it soon enough- and walked away, adjusting his scarf and turning the collar of his coat back up.

It was tedious, really- they just kept coming. He had to finish them off, every time… he'd once sworn that he would never be the one with the blood on his hands, but now, it seemed he had no choice. Officially, he was dead; Mycroft had had a laugh about that one, when he'd found out….

He let out a slight breath through his mouth, brushing the flyaway hair from his forehead- no longer dark, he'd dyed it (after many arguments about his personal safety with his brother) to a light shade of ginger, slowly fading to dark brown at the roots again. It was nearly always tangled, wild; at least no one would recognize him, not like this. Even he wasn't used to what he'd become, what he was now.

Sherlock laughed, a wisp of a chuckle escaping his lips, as he strolled along, not in any great hurry to get back to the pigeonhole that was his hideout now. It was truly stupid- all of it- with Moran scrambling to clean up after him, to keep the authorities in the dark (more than usual, anyway) and going back to hide while the sun was out... so much, he was almost tempted by the dim lights of a pub he passed- that was what normal people did, wasn't it? Go to the pub, drown their brain cells in a grimy tankard of god-knew-what….

That, however, was not an option, and even if it was it wouldn't have felt right.

He paused before entering the dark, enclosed side passage, fingertips brushing against the wall ever so slightly, counting the mud-streaked doors until he reached the thirteenth one. It was unlocked, again- Mycroft would have had a fit if he knew about Sherlock's "carelessness"- and yielded to the pressure of his hand, swinging open into the cellar-like room.

His coat and scarf were flung onto the hook behind the door; the lamps flickered dimly to life. Sherlock crossed the room and collapsed onto the shabby couch, lanky form occupying more than its area, rubbing his hands over his face like it would clear his mind. Wondering how long it would last like this. He was to the point of almost not caring- almost- for the gunmen and Moran still lived….


	4. Part 4

**Author's note: Okay, here we go.**

**Final part.**

**Do enjoy. :)**

**...**

Nearly three years.

Three years gone, three years older for everyone on earth; the black headstone had become worn, smoothed by the elements at the edges and on top, and the gold name was slowly beginning to fade.

The visitations to the grave of Sherlock Holmes still continued; in this way John Watson was able to observe the passing of time, slowly stretching on and on in a continuous long, straight line. Always the same, always going on.

The exception came one rather dreary day in April when, on the way to work, John encountered a large crowd gathered around an address on Park Lane- a well-kept section of apartment building, ringed in lines of yellow tape on stakes. He hovered on the edges of the throng, catching glimpses of the scene over shoulders. Someone he recognized from Scotland Yard was standing by the door, having an irritated conversation with someone on his mobile phone; John picked up single-word snatches from his position, including "Adair", "murder", "accounts", "gamble"….

He pushed past a young man and a middle-aged woman to get to the front, brow furrowed, curiosity having gotten the better of him. So Adair- a mildly important man, being the son of some prominent figure in Australia- had been murdered… the conversation of the Scotland Yard inspector and the person on the phone was not going well.

"Well, how should I know, the door was locked from the inside and no one heard the shot… I told you already, it was a revolver bullet… what- good god, no…." The man then noticed the staring crowd, glared, and turned away.

Sighing, John wove back through the crowd to the street; however, just as he paused for a moment to get his bearings, a tall man came hurrying along the sidewalk. John's shoulder collided with him, and several books fell to the pavement.

Wordlessly, he bent down to pick them up, but the stranger got there first- with a sweep of his arm the books were tucked back under his coat again. John caught the glimpse of eyes, narrowed in a hostile gaze, but strangely familiar….

"Hey- hey, wait!"

But he was gone, having disappeared into the crowd.

The doctor stood still for a moment, blinking; it was almost as if….

No. No, it couldn't be; it was impossible.

He shook his head, continuing along the sidewalk in the direction of the hospital.

…

He'd barely been in his office ten minutes, however, when the phone rang. John, having just settled down to some paperwork, sighed irritably and answered.

"Doctor Watson?" The secretary's voice sounded a bit strange.

"Mm?"

"There's… someone to see you."

John sighed again, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. "Well, I haven't got an appointment until half past ten…."

A deep voice was heard saying something at the end of the line; the secretary murmured a response. "He said it's urgent… and it won't take up your time, which he- wait, no, sorry…."

What _has it come to these days…._

"Oh, all right, send him up."

He rose out of his desk chair and moved about the room, pushing books back into their places on shelves, straightening objects on side tables, before ending up at the window. He pulled the curtain aside, blinking in the rather feeble rays the sun managed to send in; the opening of the door found him in this position.

"What can I do for you?"

"I am not sure that question should be asked by you, John," said a familiar voice.

The doctor whipped around. The tall figure closed the door, then turned to face him- dark hair, long coat, scarf, blue-green eyes, a slight smile on his face. Nearly exactly the same as the last time they'd spoken. Rather paler and leaner, yes- but otherwise a perfect copy of that day in the lab.

"Sherlock," John stated.

And then he fainted.

…

The ceiling tiles blurred above his head; there was a throbbing ache in his temple. He blinked, reaching out his hand to grasp something to keep him steady… and met an arm, thin and sinewy under a thick coat sleeve.

John bolted up, looking wildly around.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his desk chair, looking at the doctor, amused.

"Sorry about that, I had no idea you would be so affected. Up you get, now, careful."

The doctor swung his legs over the side of his office sofa, wincing slightly. He rubbed his hands over his face, like the man now sitting in front of him was a phantom, a ghost; but, no, he was still there.

They rose at the same time; Sherlock just watched him, John ventured over to the window again. _He's not dead. He's not dead. No, he is dead…. GOOD GOD._

"I take it the confusion and relentless inquiries will come later?"

He turned again; the dark-haired detective smiled slightly and drew in his breath to say something. However, he never got the chance- for John Watson strode firmly across the room and, with all the force he possessed, punched him in the jaw.

…

Sherlock staggered.

"John, what on earth was that?!"

His friend didn't say a word; instead, he just stood there, looking livid, as Sherlock rubbed at the left side of his face, trying to ease the pain. _Well, he hasn't changed much…._

"You were dead."

His statement hung in the air between the two of them, like glass.

"You were DEAD, Sherlock- I saw you- I was down there with you on the pavement and your blood, the blood was everywhere, they could hardly wash it away….

"You have a _grave,_ I saw you buried, you're supposed to be- I- I don't know-"

"Moldering?"

"_I took your pulse!_ And do you have any idea, any at all, what it was like, on the sidewalk? Do you, can you honestly say it?!"

"John-"

"My best friend had just jumped off a building, I went to his funeral, and for three years he's dead and I have to live with myself; and now, Sherlock, you just come right back in like nothing's changed, like it's okay-"

"Isn't it okay?"

"NO, IT'S NOT! You can't _do_ that, Sherlock! You can't just- just _leave,_ for THREE YEARS, and suddenly come back and expect it to be the same, because things have changed and will never be the same again, they will _never_ go back to the way they were!"

John broke off, breathing hard. Sherlock felt as if he'd been slapped in the face; though he probably deserved it….

He sighed and looked down at his feet, saying quietly, "They would have killed you."

"What-"

"The snipers. One for you. One for Ms. Hudson. One for Lestrade. If I hadn't jumped, they would've shot. Moriarty… he was the only one who could call them off. Which is why he is now dead."

John looked stricken. "It wasn't-"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "He was the only one who had the code word to stop them, so he put a bullet through his own head. Convenient, now there was no stopping them… unless I decided to die, unless I sacrificed my own life for those of my… of my friends."

"So…." The doctor's voice was quiet now. "So, all those things you told me on the phone, how you were a fake, how it was all a lie…."

"I had to. It was the only way, John."

The two men stared at each other, finally silent. Sherlock's eyes pleaded with his friend to understand; while John still looked disbelieving, but maybe, maybe daring to hope….

Slowly, he crossed the room again, until he was looking up into the face of his best friend, studying him, making sure he was real; then, like he'd reached a decision, he slipped his arms around the figure in the black coat, hugging him, holding tight.

Sherlock stood, frozen. He hadn't quite expected this; John's anger was perfectly predictable but maybe not… this, not standing there with his arms wrapped firmly around him….

It felt… nice.

Hesitantly, he returned the embrace; bending down a bit to compensate for the height difference, he enfolded his friend in his arms. He became aware that John was gripping the back of his coat, like he might fly away again if he didn't hold on to him, and whispering his name, softly, into his shoulder.

"Sherlock…."

"I… I know, John.

"I know."

…

"So… if you don't mind me asking, how did you do it?"

The day was over; Sherlock had gone off while John finished his shift, then reappeared at the door of the hospital that evening.

"Well, Molly helped… and there was the homeless network, and Mycroft. They were the only ones who knew. My brother did most of the planning, Molly helped with the decoy, and the network were there to... well…."

"Distract me."

"Yes."

John smiled, looking down at his feet as they walked. "It's mad, that's what it is…."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you like to bet on that, John?"

He laughed, then raised his head. The familiar black door with its polished gold numbering was suddenly in front of him, and he stopped in his tracks.

"… Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Ms. Hudson."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock extracted the key from inside one of his inner pockets and unlocked the door, pushing it open into the dark hall. "Don't worry, she's out at the moment, she'll be back soon enough… after you."

The flat smelled like new paint and varnish; there was dust on the carpet, and most of the furniture was gone. However, the two armchairs still remained, as did the desk by the windows and the sofa beneath the yellow smiley face on the wall, riddled with bullet holes, not yet papered over.

Slowly, still gazing about the room, John sat down in the chair on the left; Sherlock flung his coat over the arm of the right one and occupied his own, sitting back and pressing the tips of his fingers together, lost in thought almost immediately. His friend smiled, and the pair of them nestled into the silence; that is, until there was a shriek and a crash from the doorway, and Ms. Hudson was revealed, the contents of a paper sack scattered across the landing.

…

John remained in his own apartment for a week before moving back into 221B. In that week books and papers slowly migrated into the living area; pictures were pinned up on the wall around the mirror, and the new side tables quickly became cluttered, so that when he slipped into the kitchen for breakfast for the first time in three years, the flat was on its way to looking the way it once had.

Sherlock ambled into the room in his blue dressing gown just as the kettle was starting to sing, yawning and picking up the paper. He acknowledged John's curt "Morning" with a nod, and spread the front page over the table, buttering a slice of toast.

Breakfast was eaten in a comfortable silence; they shared the paper, exchanging pages when the other was finished with them, while their coffee was slowly depleted. John was just draining the last of his, in fact, when Sherlock's phone, perched precariously on top of a stack of books, started ringing.

"Hello?"

John looked up at him, raising his eyebrows. The person on the end of the line was evidently agitated; they were talking rapidly, hurriedly, and meanwhile a smile was slowly stretching across Sherlock's face.

"Yes. We'll be there."

He put the phone back on the table and looked at his friend.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Get your coat."

...

**And, there you have it.**

**I do hope you've enjoyed it.**


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